The Absolute Unfairness of Life
by WolfRune20855
Summary: After Cole dies, Hank retires from the DPD and opens up a coffee shop. His coffee is horrible, but there are a couple of regulars, and then there's the kid working for him who has a messed up past. Human, Modern-day, Coffee Shop AU. One shot. Hank/Connor father-son relationship.


Cole dies.

Cole dies and suddenly there's no point to anything anymore. Normally, Hank would throw himself into his work - do everything that he can to forget the ache in his chest and the empty bedroom in his house - but he can't even do that. So he quits. He hands over his badge and gun, and strolls out of the precinct all too aware of the whispers behind his back.

 _"Hasn't been the same since-"_

 _"I can't imagine what it's like to lose a child."_

 _"Good fucking riddance, I say."_

He almost chuckles at that last remark, but he hasn't laughed in weeks. Not since Cole died. So he leaves. He goes home, sits at the kitchen table, and stares at the revolver in front of him. If he were braver, he would pull the trigger, but he isn't. Hank Anderson is a coward. A coward who fears death. Instead of ending his pathetic life and joining his son, Hank wallows.

They say that misery loves company, but Hank just wants to be left the fuck alone.

Almost a year later, his Great Aunt Something-or-Other dies. It doesn't really matter. It's not like Hank really knew her anyway. He doesn't go to her funeral, so he is surprised when, three days later, a short, balding man appears on his doorstep with a will that says that Great Aunt Something-or-Other left Hank her most prized possession.

It turns out to be a coffee shop. _A fucking coffee shop_. And not even a good one either. It's in a run down house. The interior is full of worn couches and assorted coffee tables. The dishes don't match and two of the three coffee machines are broken. Some prized possession.

Hank runs a finger along the dusty countertop and frowns. This is the last thing that he needs: a project. He's ready to abandon the establishment for good when he hears a whine from behind the counter. Hesitantly, Hank peers over the worn wooden barrier.

There, lying behind the counter on a shitty couch with its head cocked to the side, is a dog. Perhaps the biggest dog that Hank has seen in his life. Hank stares at the dog. The dog stares back.

"What's your name?" Hank asks, his voice groggy from disuse.

The dog blinks.

"Right," Hank mutters, "Shouldn't expect you to talk. It's not like you're human." Hank ducks under the counter and grabs the dog by the collar, yanking him off of the couch in the process.

The dog whines.

"Sumo," Hank reads the dogtag, "What kind of name is Sumo?" Sumo wags his tail and licks Hank's hand. Hank frowns.

This is the last thing that he needs. He can't even take care of a goldfish - much less a fucking dog. He should throw the keys in the trash, go home, and return to wallowing in his misery. Really, that would be much better than whatever this is. A coffee shop. A dog. Hank should go home.

The next day, he opens for business.

The coffee is absolute shit. He was never any good at making coffee, but he still does. He uses up all of the beans in the back before he starts buying from the first vendor who walks through his door. Some new-age free-trade hippie who gives him a decent price on beans. At least, what Hank thinks is a decent price. He doesn't know shit about coffee.

He sells his house and moves into the backroom of the coffee shop. He sleeps on a crappy bed while his dog sleeps on the couch. Business is slow but steady. Most people take one sip of his coffee and vow never to return, but a couple of kids are just crazy enough to become regulars.

Hank doesn't learn their names.

His first regular is a lady with her hair chopped off and highlighted blonde. She walks into the shop and orders a coffee with more milk and sugar than actual coffee in it. Three shots of carmel, two shots of vanilla, some chocolate sauce, and extra whipped cream. Hank is surprised that she doesn't make him put sprinkles on it. She drinks it with a completely straight face before commenting on his lack of sweet treats.

The next day, she comes in with a basket of blueberry muffins, takes one and gives the rest to Hank for him to sell. And so, Sugary Drink becomes his first regular and his supplier of goodies.

Next come a group of college students. Hank deduces that all of them are friends, probably part of some club or another because they're always talking about protests and rallies that they're attending and/or planning. They take a seat in the corner with their notebooks and laptops, and they spend hours chatting. Hank would be annoyed if they didn't spend so much on coffee.

There's the pretty-boy art major who always orders cold brew. He's appalled the first time that he asks for it and Hank has no fucking idea what he's talking about. In the end, Hank tosses some ice cubes into coffee and hands it to the kid. It continues that way for a week before Hank mysteriously discovers a book on how to make cold brew on the counter one night.

Pretty-boy's friends have much less interesting orders. The girl gets iced coffee. The blond poli-sci major drinks mocha lattes. The engineering student orders hot chocolate with cinnamon. None of them tip. _Fucking college students._

Hank doesn't learn their names, but he learns their orders.

In the middle of October, Hank decides to hire help. He needs a break. Spending so many hours on his feet is taking its toll (even if it does help make him forget for a moment). He puts a bright red ' _help wanted_ ' sign in the window and waits.

Four days later, a skinny boy with brown hair dressed in clothes that are too big for his body stumbles in the shop. A scuffed-up backpack is slung over his shoulders. Clutched in his hand is a wrinkled resume that Hank barely even glances at.

"Hello," says the boy, who Hank now realizes is probably around seventeen. _Damn, he looks younger._ "My name is Connor. I'm-"

"You're hired," Hank cuts him off.

"I am?" Connor seems surprised, as if he was expecting Hank to take one look at his threadbare clothes and worn tennis shoes and kick him out. He probably was.

"Yes," Hank says. He lets Connor behind the counter. "What do you know about coffee, kid?"

"I'm a fast learner," says Connor. Hank grunts. If this is the kid's way of telling him that he doesn't know shit then he'll take it. He needs the help.

Connor's eyes widen when he notices Sumo sitting on the couch. For a second, Hank thinks that Connor's going to run - after all, the dog probably weighs as much as the kid - but he kneels down and starts scratching Sumo behind the ears.

"Good boy," murmurs Connor.

Sumo wags his tail eagerly.

"Attention whore," Hank mutters, leaving the boy and the dog alone.

"I like dogs," says Connor, "What's your dog's name?"

"Sumo," is Hank's response.

True to his word, Connor is a fast learner. In a matter of days, he has learned all of the drinks on the menu and even started creating a few of his own. He's good help too, even if he does have a weird habit of sticking everything into his mouth. Connor drinks his coffee black, which makes Hank begrudgingly respect him, even though he is a strange kid.

Hank pretends not to notice that Connor spends every waking hour at the coffee shop. He pretends not to notice that Connor only owns three shirts and one pair of jeans. He pretends not to notice the fact that Connor never mentions a family and never attends school.

He starts buying them dinner every night.

Connor becomes friends with the group of college students. Cold Brew pretty-boy talks to Connor a lot. So does the girl. They talk about injustices, equal rights, and changing the world. Connor takes it all in with hungry eyes. Hank has half a mind to kick them out of his coffee shop permanently, but he doesn't because they buy so many fucking drinks.

He probably should have.

It's a windy day in November when the door to the coffee shop pings open and Gavin Reed saunters inside as if he owns the place. Hank is in the backroom sorting through the latest shipment of coffee beans when he hears Gavin's annoying voice.

"What have we got here?"

"Good afternoon," Connor says, "What can I get for you?"

"Where's Hank Anderson?" asks Reed.

"Um…"

Hank appears behind Connor, his permanently etched frown deepening as he crosses his arms. "What do you want, Reed?"

"I had to see for myself." Gavin Reed smiles. "Detective Hank Anderson selling coffee. The guys won't believe me."

"Fuck you."

Gavin snorts.

"Can I get you anything?" Connor asks again.

Gavin turns his attention to Connor, his eyes quickly assessing the skinny boy before him. Hank watches his ex-colleague come to the same conclusion as Hank in a matter of seconds.

"Sure," says Gavin, "I'll take a coffee with cream."

It's a simple order. Three dollars worth of paper and coffee. It doesn't deserve the five bucks that Gavin tips Connor for the drink. He flips Hank off as he leaves the coffee shop.

Hank shakes his head.

"Who was that?" asks Connor.

"An asshole that I used to work with," answers Hank, "I wouldn't worry about him if I were you."

To Hank's never ending surprise, Gavin Reed becomes a regular. Three times a week, the detective strolls inside the coffee shop, insults Hank, and tips Connor five bucks. _Will wonders never cease?_

Finals week rolls around and the college kids stop protesting and start studying. It seems like they're always in Hank's coffee shop. From open to close, Hank has at least one of them crouched in the corner, huddled over a textbook and chewing on their pens.

The Sunday before finals week, Hank kicks them out at nine. Well, he tells Connor to kick them out because they seem to listen to the kid more than they do him.

Hank cleans the espresso machine as Connor walks over to the group, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black apron and a hesitant smile on his face.

"Markus," Connor says, "We're closing up. You need to go."

Cold Brew pretty-boy snaps his textbook closed and leaves the coffee shop with his friends trailing behind him. Hank almost feels sorry for them as he watches them rush through the sleet. It's going to freeze tonight and Hank pities the fool who gets caught in it.

Dishes clink against each other as Connor busses the tables and washes the dishes, setting them carefully into the dishwasher. Sumo watches the sleet pound against the windows. Hank sighs.

"You got somewhere to stay tonight?" Hank asks.

Connor stills, momentarily pausing before he finishes putting up the rest of the dishes. "What do you mean, Hank?"

"You know exactly what I mean, kid," says Hank, "The shelter on fifth closes their doors at eight on Sundays."

"I'm not-"

"Don't bother. I'm not an idiot." Connor blinks at Hank, who shakes his head. "You're staying here tonight."

"Really?" Connor's brown eyes are wide, filled with an emotion that Hank doesn't want to name.

"Yeah," says Hank, "You can sleep on the couch. You'll have to fight Sumo for it, but it's dry. I can't have my best employee freezing the entire night."

He feels awkward. It's been so long since he shared a roof with another human being. _It's not like he's really human_ , Hank muses. _He's Connor_. The kid confused sugar for salt only a week ago. There is nothing to be worried about.

"It's only temporary," Hank reassures Connor, "You know, until the weather's calmed down."

"Of course."

Hank lays a comforting hand on Connor's shoulder as he passes him, heading towards his own bed. It's uncomfortable, and yet it feels natural. Hank wonders what happened to fuck Connor's life up so horribly as he stares at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep. He doesn't ask.

Connor doesn't leave.

The weather calms down (somewhat) but then it's cold. Nearly freezing. Hank keeps making excuses. He knows that's exactly what they are - excuses - but Connor never calls him out on it, so they pretend like Connor hasn't moved into the coffee shop. Sumo gets used to sleeping on the floor.

Christmas break rolls around and the college kids leave. Business slows down a little. Sugary Drink still stops by every morning. Occasionally she brings her kid and a friend who drinks pour-over coffee (whatever the hell that is). Connor insists on decorating, so Hank hangs up a singular string of Christmas lights on the far wall. It isn't much, but it's a hell of a lot more than what Hank had last year - booze and misery.

Christmas isn't anything special. Hank never bothers to open the doors. People have better things to do on Christmas than drink the world's _worst_ coffee. They eat chinese food on one of the couches and watch the snow flutter to the ground. The hints of a smile grace Hank's face as Connor feeds Sumo a few pieces of chicken.

It's not bad. Not bad at all.

"I haven't celebrated Christmas in a long time," comments Connor, bringing Hank out of his thoughts.

"We're not celebrating," Hank mutters, "Christmas has presents, and a tree, and shit like that."

"We have lights."

"I s'pose we do." A silence falls over the duo and Hank stuffs fried rice into his mouth. Several minutes pass before Connor speaks again.

"We used to celebrate Christmas at the boy's home," Connor says, "There were presents, and food, and stuff like that. People care around Christmas. You know, because it's the season of giving."

Hank grunts.

"It wasn't horrible," Connor continues, "I mean, it wasn't good, but it wasn't horrible. There was a strict schedule, rules to follow, that kind of thing. When I was a kid I actually believed that things would get better."

"You're still a kid, Connor."

"I'm not really," says Connor, "Not the way that Alice is or Markus was."

Hank shakes his head. "If the home wasn't horrible then why'd you run away?"

Connor pauses and Hank thinks that he has closed back up. It's a shame. He would have liked to get to know more about the kid. Just when Hank's about to speak again, to turn the subject towards something other than Connor's fucked up past, he speaks.

"I didn't run away from the home," Connor whispers, "I ran away from Amanda."

Hank has no idea who Connor is talking about, but the way that he says her name - with hushed reverence and fear - sends a shiver down Hank's spine. He doesn't press, trusting that Connor will tell him when he's ready.

"Amanda didn't celebrate Christmas either. She was always working and she wanted someone to make her look good. That...that's not me. Whenever I failed, she…" Connor's hand grips his right arm, drawing Hank's attention.

A long, jagged white scar runs the length of Connor's arm. Hank freezes. He doesn't need Connor to say what happened if he failed, he's seen enough cases of abuse to know the signs. The pain flickering across Connor's face as he relives his old memories makes Hank's heart ache. The feeling is so familiar that Hank barely even notices.

"It doesn't matter." Connor laughs harshly. "I left and she replaced me. Upgraded to a better model."

Hank knows that he should say something comforting, but he has no idea what. He's never been good at this whole touchy-feely thing. He should probably tell Connor that he's special or some Mr. Rogers wisdom like that. Instead, he says, "I used to have a kid. Cole. He died."

That's it. Three sentences. His pathetic way of trying to tell Connor that he's not alone - that life sucks for everyone. He's not sure that it works.

Connor pets Sumo. "Thank you, Hank."

Hank grumbles. "Yeah. Well, don't get too used to it."

"Of course."

They finish eating in silence and never talk about their conversation again.

Before Hank knows it, the new year arrives and the college kids swarm back to his coffee shop with signs and big ideas. Cold Brew pretty-boy stands atop one of the couches and makes an inspirational speech. Hank doesn't listen and yells at him to get off of the sofa. He does.

The following Saturday, Connor takes the afternoon off. Hank thinks nothing of it. After all, the kid could probably use a break. They both could. Thankful for the excuse, Hank kicks everyone out and closes early. Late into the night, he sits at a table with a glass of whiskey and Sumo by his side trying to figure out how much profit they've made in the past week.

He's never been good at math. At least, that's what he tells himself. Hank has never been good at math and that's why he stays up staring at the notepad in front of him. He's not waiting for Connor to come back. He's just doing math, which he's never been any good at.

There's a frantic pounding at the door and Hank jumps up to answer it, closely followed by Sumo. Standing on his doorstep with worry etched across his features is the blond poli-sci major who drinks mocha lattes. Sampson, or something like that. Hank yanks open the door, frowning.

"What d'you want?"

"It's Connor," says Sampson.

"What about Connor?"

"He's been arrested."

 _"What?"_

"Well, you see, we were part of the BLM protest and it got kinda violent. Markus, and Connor, and North all got arrested. Markus' dad is probably bailing him out, but with North's record I'm sure that they'll charge her with something-"

"Kid!" Hank yells, cutting Sampson's tirade short. "I don't give a fuck what's happening to your friends. Where's Connor?"

"Downtown," answers Sampson.

Hank grabs his keys, locks the door behind him, and gets in his car, leaving Sampson to fend for himself in the cold. The drive to Hank's old workplace is the longest drive of his life. How could Connor be so stupid? How could he be so stupid? Connor had been enthralled with Markus and his pretty speeches since the moment the met. He should have known something like this would happen.

Hank parks in the 15-minute-dry-cleaner-only parking two buildings down from the precinct. The winter wind whips around Hank's face as he trudges through the snow. He yanks open the door and rushes inside. If Hank were a more nostalgic man, he would have taken a moment to appreciate the irony of being back in the place that he had left nearly two years ago, but he doesn't.

Gavin Reed seems to be waiting for him. The detective grabs Hank the minute that he enters, pulling him into a private alcove. Hank frowns, ripping his arm from Gavin's grasp.

"Where's Connor?" Hank demands.

"He's okay," says Gavin.

Hank reaches into the pockets of his jeans but Gavin stops him.

"Did you know that he's Amanda Bion's kid?"

"Who?"

"Amanda Bion," Gavin explains, "the senator of Michigan. His prints were in the system. They called her, and she's sending an assistant to pick him up."

Hank runs a hand over his beard as frustration courses through his veins. No. No. He can't let that bitch take Connor. The kid was so scared of her, Hank can only imagine what would happen if she gets her hands on him again.

He can't lose Connor. Not now.

Not ever.

"Reed," says Hank, "You know as well as I do that Connor didn't just wander off one day."

"I-"

"Where is he?"

Gavin pauses as he things for a moment. Hank watches the detective weigh his options, his brows furrowing as he thinks. "They're keeping his in a room in the back, near the exit. I'd tell you to avoid the cameras, but this conversation never happened."

Hank nods.

He pulls the top of his hoodie over his head and ducks through the precinct, carefully avoiding the cameras, sticking to their few blind spots and never glancing towards them. Because he knows the precinct like the back of his hand, he quickly makes his way to the room that Connor is being held in, picking the lock in a matter of seconds. The door swings open.

Connor sits on a solitary, metal chair in the corner of the room, staring up at the ceiling. His head snaps towards Hank as the door swings open and relief floods his chocolate eyes. "Hank."

"Come on, kid," Hank orders, taking a second to assess Connor's injuries. The skin around his left eye is turning purple but otherwise he looks fine. "We need to go."

Connor jumps up, joining him in the doorway. Together, they make their escape. Neither says a word as they jog down the icy sidewalk and slide into the car. The ride back to the coffee shop is entirely silent. Hank pulls into a parking space and waits. He should say something - something stern or commanding - but he's just so fucking relieved.

Hank reaches out a hand, grabs Connor by the shoulders, and pulls him into a hug. Hesitantly, Connor's hands wrap around Hank. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hank realizes that this is the first time that he's hugged someone since Cole died, but he ignores it. Cole is dead, but Connor - Connor is alive.

"Never do that again, son," Hank says.

Connor nods, tears streaming down his face.

"Right," Hank says as he breaks their hug. "Let's go."

Sumo meets them with a wagging tail and a slobbering smile. That night, Hank takes the couch and lets Connor sleep on the bed. He's too wired to sleep anyways, he says. _Too wired._

The course of the next week, Hank keeps expecting to see his picture on the news. He waits for Senator Amanda Bion to accuse the drunkard, ex-detective of kidnapping her son. He expects the police to pound on his door and haul away Connor into the dark night. He expects to end up behind bars. He expects Connor to run away to somewhere that's safer for him.

Instead, Kara comes in the next day with two trays of lemon pound cake, Luthor and Alice following her. Instead, Markus comes in on Wednesday, apologizes to Connor, and tips them a fifty. Instead, Simon, Josh, and North resume their study group, dreaming about revolution in hushed tones. Instead, Gavin Reed saunters into Hank's coffee shop as if he owns the place, orders a coffee with cream, tips them five bucks, and winks as he strolls out.

Amanda Bion never comes knocking on their door.

Connor doesn't leave.

And, for Hank, that's enough.


End file.
